Betwixt and Between
by vandevere
Summary: After Claire Kincaid's death...
1. Chapter 1

Jack McCoy was feeling fine on a Friday night. A little _too_ fine, if the truth be told.

However, McCoy came from a long line of hard drinkers, and the casual observer might not have realized how inebriated the Executive Assistant DA was.

McCoy's speech wasn't slurred, he wasn't staggering; most people might have thought him stone-cold sober.

He wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Even drunk, McCoy was, however, quite sensible. He stood outside the bar he had just exited, waiting on a cab, breath misting in the chill air, a small group of like-minded revelers coming out, braving the late night air.

McCoy moved away from them. Claire had died last month, and he was in no mood to share their joy…

That was when he heard the screeching of tires, screams and shouts.

He turned, just in time to see a sedan-a Mercedes-go off the street, onto the sidewalk, tearing right through the small group, and continue on, bearing down on him…

McCoy moved. He wasn't quite fast enough…

The sedan clipped him, sent him careening right into a brick wall…

…..

Detectives Lennie Briscoe and Rey Curtis stood looking down at the three dead bodies.

"We got a witness," the cop on the scene said. "Says a Mercedes plowed right through them like a knife through hot butter."

"Where is he?" Briscoe asked.

"The EMTs have him," the cop said. "He got dinged up a little."

Briscoe nodded, turned to the ambulance, the EMTs, and their patient.

" _Counselor?"_

Jack McCoy, lying on a stretcher, was just about the last thing he expected to see.

The man's face looked bruised, and his right leg was immobilized.

 _Broken, or a bad sprain…_

"Detectives," McCoy managed a pale smile. "Not quite our usual routine…"

"What happened, Counselor?"

"Mercedes went off the street, right onto the sidewalk," McCoy rasped, hand to his head. "Went right though those people, then knocked me right into that wall over there."

He stopped, looking at the three bodies.

"They didn't have a chance…"

Briscoe looked McCoy over.

"Got to ask you a personal question, Counselor. How sober are you?"

McCoy sighed.

"Not very," he admitted. "Will that ruin my value as a witness?"

"It might," Briscoe nodded. "How much did you have?"

"Enough to know my credibility as a witness might be shit…"

"We can talk later, Counselor."

"Yeah," McCoy sighed again. "The EMTs are ready to go now. Guess I'll be at Bellevue."

Briscoe watched as the EMTs loaded the stretcher into the ambulance.

…..

 _Two weeks later_

"Jack!" Adam Schiff's voice, scolding. "I thought the orthopedist said you couldn't go to work until four more weeks."

McCoy settled his crutches by the desk, tried his best shit-eating grin on his boss.

It didn't work.

"I was going nuts at home," he finally said. "Don't worry, Adam. I'm not going to go tearing around Hogan Place."

"You'd better not," Schiff spoke sternly. "Bones take time to heal…"

"Speaking of which…" McCoy looked at Schiff, standing just inside his office. "Did they ever find the sonofabitch?"

"A Mercedes, of indeterminate color," Schiff grunted. "It's not like we don't have thousands of those in Manhattan, do we?"

"He killed three people," McCoy growled.

"Yeah…"Schiff nodded. "And he could've killed _you_ too."

"Someday…" McCoy rubbed his face. "Someday we'll get them all…"

"Jack…that won't bring Claire back…"

McCoy sighed.

"I know," he sighed.

 _Without her, it's empty here too…_

"You shouldn't be here, Jack," Schiff walked up, laid a gentle hand on McCoy's shoulder. "Come on, let me take you home."

McCoy let Schiff gather his crutches, and shepherd him home; to his empty apartment.

It didn't matter anyway.

Everywhere was empty now.

Claire Kincaid was gone…


	2. Chapter 2

Jack McCoy was beginning to get used to Jamie Ross' presence now.

For a while, he'd thought her an intruder, an interloper who didn't belong here.

But Claire Kincaid was dead, and Adam was firm.

 _I like her. You'll like her too…_

There had been a very clear _or else_ , in Adam's voice.

Two months had passed since the incident that had left McCoy with a busted knee, three since Claire's death.

McCoy sighed as he massaged his right knee. At least the cast and crutches were a thing of the past.

His orthopedist had suggested he use a cane for a few more months.

The damned thing was sitting against the table where he usually stashed his bike helmet.

 _Can't ride for a few more months yet…_

The attorney glared at the cane, and if looks could kill, the thing would've shriveled into ash on the spot.

Sighing, McCoy picked up the nearest file.

 _Damien Crane…Father of three children, with a lovely wife, and a thriving business…_

No financial problems, no infidelity on the wife's part, all three kids getting on in school…

 _Crane walked into his house, shot all three kids, his wife, then calmly called the 27th, and told them what he did…_

"Jack…"

Jamie Ross entered the office, with two large coffees…

"Welcome back to the office," Ross bowed slightly as she handed a coffee over.

"Thanks," McCoy accepted the coffee, handed her the file on Crane.

"Sally Bell's his attorney," he explained. "Think she's going to go the _Mental Defect_ route."

"Well…" Ross looked the file over. "She could be right. There doesn't seem to be anything even faintly resembling a motive here."

"Skoda can look at him," McCoy sipped his coffee.

"And what will you do if he agrees with Sally?"

"We'll cross that bridge if we come to it," McCoy sighed. "Skoda's not easily duped; and he knows all the tricks."

"Good," Ross set her coffee on the desk. "How's your leg?"

"Achey…" McCoy groused. "But I can predict weather changes now, so I suppose I have that going for me…"

He sighed again.

"Talk to Sally. I want to know which way she'll leap."

…..

It had been a bad year for Drunk Driving Law Enforcement, and an even worse one for 1 Hogan Place, what with one ADA killed by a Drunk Driver, and-in an unrelated incident-the EADA also very nearly killed by a Drunk Driver.

 _And no real justice for either Claire or Jack..._

The driver who had killed Claire Kincaid had gotten off with a twelve-month sentence; and the other driver...

The detectives of the 27th had tried. But there was nothing for them to find.

 _Three dead bodies, and nothing to show for it..._

Adam Schiff sighed as he walked to his office to his office, saw Jack McCoy ahead, balancing cane and a carton of Chinese, trying to open his own office door.

McCoy looked to be just one inch away from spilling his carton of Chinese on the floor.

"Here, Jack," he opened his own office door. "Eat your lunch with me."

Once McCoy was seated, carton opened, chopsticks out, he sighed in relief.

"I… _hate_ canes," he muttered darkly. Schiff nodded sagely, and set about making coffee.

"How's the Crane case coming along?" he asked.

"Skoda's looking at him this afternoon," McCoy picked up the chopsticks. "Not sure what to think of Crane myself."

" _You_ have doubts?" Schiff feigned amazement.

McCoy sighed as he stared at the shrimp speared on his chopstick.

"We'll see what Skoda says…"

"So…" Schiff set the full mug of coffee on the table. "How are you, my boy?"

"I'm fine Adam…" McCoy continued to stare at the chopstick.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack McCoy _wasn't_ fine. But he couldn't tell Adam Schiff that.

The District DA had a tendency to mother-hen his EADAs; especially Jack McCoy.

And Jack didn't want to bother Adam Schiff with his personal issues.

He wasn't even sure Schiff had known that he and Claire were together. Interoffice romances were generally frowned upon in the DA's Office.

 _God knows Claire and I went the extra mile to be discreet. Neither of us wanted to bring any shame upon Adam's head…_

So, maybe Adam hadn't known.

But, if he didn't know, how else to explain the care and concern, how… _gently_ …Adam treated him after Claire died?

Here Jack McCoy was, at his favorite bar again, shot of Scotch in front of him.

He wasn't plowed, fall-down-drunk, like he had been the day Claire died.

But he was far from sober right now.

 _Sobriety is vastly over-rated…_

Still, it was late, and he should be heading home.

McCoy knocked his Scotch back, grabbed his coat and hat, settled his tab, then headed out the door, into the chilly night air.

To his surprise, Lennie Briscoe was standing right outside; looking at him, mute sadness in his eyes; and McCoy remembered.

 _She had been driving him home when she got hit…_

"Keeping an eye on me, Lennie?"

"I worry about you, Counselor," Briscoe looked down at the sidewalk.

"I'm fine, Lennie," McCoy spread his arms wide. "You can go home."

The detective sighed, breath steaming in the chill air.

"Let me drive you home Counselor," Briscoe looked back up. "I'll worry less for tonight."

 _Lennie's feeling the guilt too…_

"It wasn't your fault, Detective Briscoe. If I hadn't left-"

"If you hadn't left, it would probably have been all three of us in Claire Kincaid's car," Briscoe interrupted, a savage note in his voice. "And that goddam drunk driver would have hit her anyway. It's not my fault, and it's not yours' either!"

McCoy blinked, startled by the detective's words.

Of course, it was McCoy's fault, the whole damn mess...

 _Kind of Briscoe to say that though…_

"Come on, Jack," now Briscoe sounded weary. "You need to sleep…"

McCoy wanted to argue, but…

Briscoe was right.

"All right," he sighed, and Briscoe relaxed, as if he had been preparing for a long, drawn-out argument.

The detective's car was warm. Briscoe had kept the engine on.

Soon, they were moving.

"Any luck on Landsky?"

Briscoe chuckled, shaking his head.

"What?" McCoy demanded.

"It's you, Counselor," Briscoe was grinning. "You're three sheets, and you still want to talk shop?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Briscoe shrugged as he drove, eyes on the road. "Just you remind me of the guy who went to work for a vacation. Don't you ever rest?"

"Yeah…"

He didn't do it often, but he had taken Diana Hawthorne on vacation to Ireland once, around six years ago…

Other times, he went on Biker Holidays.

 _Just me and my Yamaha…_

"I do take vacations, Lennie," he sighed. "It's just that I…love my job too…"

McCoy hated the defensive tone he heard creeping into his voice.

 _Do I really feel I should apologize for loving my job?_

Light flared to the left. McCoy turned his head, saw the headlights of a car, bearing down…

Jack McCoy jolted awake.

 _In my bed…_

 _Damn…_

 _Lennie Briscoe, driving me home from the bar. Was that really_ _just_ _a dream?_

McCoy rolled out of bed, padded barefoot into the living room.

Now, he remembered...

Lennie _had_ driven him home. No unpleasant incidents on the way. No drunk driver…

McCoy must have been drunker than he thought. He'd had trouble inserting his key into the door lock. Sighing, Briscoe had done the job for him. Then, inside, the detective had filled a large glass with water, and had the attorney take two aspirin with the water.

"You won't feel so bad in the morning," the detective had said, eyes sad as he spoke.

It was true.

McCoy's head ached. But not quite as badly as he had feared it might.

There was a yellow Post-it on McCoy's refrigerator, a phone number, and Lennie Briscoe's careless scrawl.

 _Call me if you ever want to talk._


	4. Chapter 4

_Events take place post "Under the Influence"_

"Adam?"

Jamie Ross stood just inside Adam Schiff's office. It had taken all of her courage to approach him about this.

 _The Dressler Case wrapped last Friday; and now it's Monday…_

"I'm worried about Jack," she said.

"Well…" Schiff laid down the file he was reading, and sighed. "Dressler's case did cut just a little too deep,"

"I know," Ross sighed too.

Schiff had no idea how deep it had cut. No idea how close Jack McCoy had come to violating the Law.

He had hidden exculpatory evidence; had come within a hair's breadth of sending Dressler to Death Row.

 _He came to his senses, thank God._

On Friday evening, after all was said and done, Ross had invited McCoy to dinner with her boyfriend. He said he'd be there for coffee.

 _He never showed…_

"I'm worried about him," she repeated. "I called him several times over the weekend; home number, cell number, even his office number. Nothing."

Schiff frowned at that.

"I'll check in on him," the DA finally said.

…..

Adam Schiff sighed as he looked up at his worried-looking ADA.

 _Yeah…The Dressler Case_ _ **did**_ _cut a little too close to home for Jack…_

 _He and Claire tried so hard to be discreet. In public, they were always the Executive Assistant DA and his Second Chair._

But Adam had known both of them well, especially Jack McCoy.

It had been clear, to him, that there was _something_ going on between the two.

But they had been discreet…

Then, Claire Kincaid had died, killed by a drunk driver, and Jack…

He had carried on, seemingly untouched by it all. But Adam knew better…

 _Then, I gave him the Dressler Case…_

 _In retrospect, that might not have been my brightest idea…_

"I'll check in on him," Schiff said again. "Thank you, Miss Ross."

Jamie Ross nodded uncertainly, then headed back to her office.

Alone, Adam Schiff took a deep breath, let it out.

Picking up the phone, he dialed McCoy's office phone; was answered by voicemail.

"It's Adam. Call me as soon as you can."

All the other numbers, Home phone, work cell, and private cell, all went direct to voicemail too.

"Jack…" he sighed. "Where are you?"

Coming to a decision, he picked up his phone, dialed his receptionist.

"Hold my calls, Amy," he told her. "I have to go out for a bit."

That duty done, he collected coat and fedora, and headed out the door.

Jack's bike was parked in the lot of his apartment building.

 _So he is home…_

Standing outside, Schiff took out his cell phone, dialed McCoy's home number again.

Again, it went to voicemail.

 _This isn't good…_

Schiff found the building's super, explained the situation.

"Can you let me into Jack McCoy's apartment?" he asked. "I think something may have happened."

The super, Al by name, shrugged and nodded.

"Follow me…"

Al led Schiff to McCoy's apartment.

"Mr. McCoy?" he knocked on the door. "You got a visitor."

"Jack, it's me," Schiff added.

Nothing…

Utter silence.

"Sure he's here?" Al looked at Schiff.

"His bike's here."

"Yeah…" Al looked worried. "It is…"

He took out his heavy set of keys, opened the apartment door. It swung open soundlessly, into darkness…

The window drapes had been closed, to keep the light out. No TV on, no radio, no lamp.

The odor of scotch lay heavy on the air…

Al turned on a light and Adam Schiff caught his breath.

The place was a crow's nest; books and empty bottles of scotch scattered indiscriminately across the floor.

 _Jack…_

Schiff moved further in, afraid of what he might find.

He found Jack McCoy, on the floor, slumped against the sofa.

 _Dear god…_

 _Is he even breathing?_

Laying a trembling hand to the base of McCoy's throat, he relaxed when he felt the pulse, steady and strong…

Schiff took McCoy in, unshaven, hair uncombed, clad in tee and sweats…

"Should I call an ambulance?"

"No," Schiff decided. "Help me get him in the shower."

"I'll get wet!"

"So will I," Schiff took off his coat and fedora. Al glared at him for a second, then chuckled darkly.

"You owe me…"

"I'll remember you on my annual Christmas/Hanukah List."

Schiff looked down at Jack McCoy, then bent, and, as gently as he could, hauled his friend up…

With Al's help, he got McCoy into the bathroom, kept McCoy upright as Al fiddled with the shower controls.

"What temperature?" Al asked.

"As icy-cold as possible." Schiff managed to yank the tee up and over McCoy's head.

 _We'll strip off the rest when he's in the shower…_

"Ready?"

"Yep," Al nodded. "Did I say you're gonna owe me for this?"

"Yes…you did."

Between the two of them, the two men hauled Jack McCoy into the shower.

The icy water jolted McCoy awake, as awake as it was possible for him to be, considering how much alcohol was in his system.

But Al kept McCoy mostly upright while Schiff stripped the sodden sweats off.

After that, Schiff wrapped McCoy up on all the towels he could lay his hands on, then hauled McCoy back into the living room.

"Keep an eye on him," he ordered Al. Then he walked into McCoy's bedroom, picked out clean clothing.

Al was sitting on the sofa, keeping McCoy from sliding back down to the floor.

After getting McCoy into the clean clothes-a lot harder than it looked-Adam Schiff called home.

"Schiff Residence," came the response. "Ruth Schiff speaking."

"It's me, Ruth," Schiff said. "I'm calling from Jack's place. He's in a bad way."

"I'll make up the guest bedroom."

"Thank you, Ruth," relief coursed through Schiff's body as he looked at Jack McCoy.

 _Our favorite Problem Child…_

"I'll start a good hot soup," Ruth added.

"Not right away," Schiff cautioned. "He's going to need to sleep first. Maybe tomorrow."

"Yes, Adam. I'll be waiting for both of you."

"See you."

Schiff hung up, looked at Al.

"One last favor, Al," he said. "Help me get him into a taxi…"

…..

Dreams of Claire Kincaid…

 _She stares at him with accusing eyes. She knows what he did, what he tried to do…_

 _Jack McCoy stands there, before her, and he knows there's nothing he can say._

 ** _I tried to kill a man. I didn't use a gun, knife, or a heavy object…._**

 _Instead, McCoy had used his office to hide evidence._

 ** _I'm no better than Diana Hawthorne…_**

 _Over the weekend, all he sees is Claire Kincaid, and how she would feel, seeing him stoop, to_ _ **this**_ _…_

 _And there is no amount of scotch that can erase the knowledge of what he did…_

 _No amount of scotch that will erase the loathing he sees in Claire Kincaid's eyes…_

Jack McCoy opened his eyes, and, immediately, he felt ill, head and stomach doing the Two-step…

His stomach lurched. He felt strong hands hold him steady, holding his head, as he vomited into a trash can…

Then, after an eternity, he was laid back down again, and gentle hands wiped his face; the cloth cool on fevered skin.

 _Where..?_

"Easy, Jack…" Adam Schiff. "You've been ill."

McCoy's eyes fluttered open, and there Adam was, bending over him, damp cloth in hand.

"Adam…" McCoy's throat felt parched.

"Think you can keep a little water down?"

McCoy nodded. His head ached less now, his stomach calmer too.

He struggled to sit, felt Adam's supporting arm.

"Only a few sips, Jack…"

The water was cool, balm for his throat.

"If this stays down," Adam said. "You can have some tea."

The older man regarded him, and McCoy felt his soul quail under that infinitely compassionate gaze.

"My boy…" Schiff sighed. "I'm sorry…"

" _You're_ sorry?" hysterical laughter threatened to overwhelm McCoy.

"Why should you be sorry?" his throat tightened, tears pounding his head. "I'm the one. I should be apologizing to you."

"Jack…"

"I tried to kill Dressler," McCoy said it quickly, to get the admission over with. "I hid evidence that he was drunk, so he would be convicted on Murder, with the Death Penalty."

"Jack…"

"I'm going to resign," the words were coming out in a rush now, a flood he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. "All I could think of was Claire, how she died, how _her_ killer only got twelve months for killing her. Dressler killed three people, a father, his son, and another man, and all I could think of was Claire…"

"Shut up, Jack," Schiff spoke firmly. "Had I been thinking, I would have had another ADA handle the Dressler Case. It's not like you're the only ADA at Hogan Place. I shouldn't have laid that on you. And you're not going to resign. As I recall, the exculpatory evidence was furnished at trial, so you came to your senses at least."

"But-"

"So you're human, Jack," Schiff spoke wearily. "You have feet of clay. Welcome to the rest of the human race."

That was when Schiff caught McCoy up and held him tightly, hand caressing the back of his head.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again, my boy! When I saw you slumped against the sofa, for a moment there, I thought you were dead."

After a minute, he laid McCoy back down, settling sheets and blankets over his shoulders.

"We'll talk more," Schiff said. "When you're feeling better. For now, get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

Then, he stood, and turned the already low lights off.

"I'll be right outside, if you need anything."

He left the door ajar, lights from the hall coming in, the sound of Schiff, and his wife, Ruth, as they moved around in the living room.

Jack McCoy closed his eyes.

 _Please,_ he prayed. _No more dreams tonight, no more dreams of Claire…_


End file.
